What are they doing now?
by Thefallenheart
Summary: What the major players of 40k are doing now.
1. Chapter 1

Memories... yes he had those. But they seemed, distant in this place. Like they were only as real as a shadow. He could remember his memories being different before. He remembered remembering more vividly. That had, probably, been when he was still mortal. Fully mortal, no something dwelling in the twilight of reality like some vampire or revenant standing on the threshold waiting for the invitation of either.

Strange to remember remembering things how they were and remember remembering them different. It was madness, some inhalation of airborne toxins that clouded the mind and snared the senses, twisting perceptions of reality upon themselves until they made less than no sense and you even became unaware of your own death as you lay breathing a manifestation of asphyxiation. Now there was a memory of childhood. But such a time was dimmer than a shadows shadow and held even less weight in this place. Best not to think about such things, ever.

But what was it that had brought these thoughts on. Oh, yes. The scythe. He had always carried one. A scythe. Strange how such a prominent symbol of peace and plenty could inspire fear into untold millions the galaxy over. It was an instrument of dread in itself. Its ability to kill and maim held little to do with its physical shape anymore, its notched blade, its rust, its grime, its ground in putrid corpse meat. It even had a name of its own 'Manreaper'. It looked like it could not even cut cobwebs, but he had used it to calve through power armour and bodies like they were made of water.

Scythe... it went with the orbs. He had four of them. They were connected to his belt by a length of chain and they emitted clouds of toxic gasses the like of which no one should ever desire to breathe. They reeked, but on this world the stench of decay and death was so over universally overpowering that people would gladly take a long deep breath of it simply to break the horrible suffocating monotony.

He rested one talon on one them. They comforted him in a way that the chanting of the damned never could. He could hear them, even here. The chanters encircled the planets equator, constantly walking, shuffling in a big circuit that would never end until they died and became something like himself. He could hear their prayers and slow steady chants from hear, brought by some unholy reeking breeze. Even here on a throne that was as tall as a mountain. A mountain its heights covered in poisonous smog, the likes of which would flay a mans lungs from the inside and leaving coughing up a viscous crimson liquid inconsistent in texture that had once been working innards.

Another memory. Had that been his fate? To die in such a manner? If not for his father it would have been. That made him angry. His father should have just let him die all those years ago. It was his choice, his death right. He had done his purpose and brought a peace to a world that could not afford war, a twisted horrible world where the people were predated upon b half dead jackals from the tops of the mountains. perverted abominations that were not really alive but not dead enough, who brought only suffering and despair to those that their ancestors had sworn to guide and protect. It made him sick to think of it. But those people had been saved by him. He had shown them how to resist the half-dead warlords and their armies of rotting corpse-things. He had shown them ho to fight with what meagre ill-suited things they had; pitch forks, spades, hammers, sickles even scythes. They had not trusted him at first, walking down from the perpetual chocking smog of the mountains, breathing in its toxicity and remaining alive. But he had helped them bring in what little harvest there was on the scanty unsullied land. They had been his friends; the nearest he had ever had to a true family.

Something touched his contorted face. He reached up to examine it with one talon as clean as something dripping out of the bottom of a coffin. It glittered on his fingers in the light of the baleful red sun like the madness in the eyes of a god. It was a tear. It took his brain a moment to realize, even recognise this. A tear. But why? Had he cried when his brother and best friend died? No. Had he cried at his father's death? No. Had he cried when he lay dying on the side of a mountain chocking on smog as his nemesis stalked towards him? No. He had never cried. Not at such things. But hear was a tear, precious in its solitariness. When had he ever wept? The last, and only time, had been when he had been taken away from his world. Everyone he had ever known, snatched away from him. He had wanted to live and work grow, old and die amongst them. But his father had snatched that away from him. And he learnt he would never have grown old. But why a tear now? That world was long since dead. Its people now gone to the Beyond where no toxic ground or poisonous rain could bother them again.

And that shameful little thought. 'I'm sorry I never joined you.'

It was the ultimate perversity; possessing a name that meant 'child of death' and no longer being capable of dying.

Was it possible that he missed them, after all this time. But no, it could not be that. He had wept for that long ago. 'Is it because you betrayed them?'. The thought came unbidden into his mind like a shard of shattered glass digging into a twelve-day corpse.

But he had no choice. It had seemed obvious at the time that his charismatic larger brother was going to win. He had simply been going along with the crowd to undo as much of its damage as possible after the ensuring holocaust. He had never given over to chaos. Why would he have? It had nothing to bribe him with. He had never cared for anything other than other people. No ambition, no unnatural lust, no desire other than to keep people safe and free of despair. Had that been how they got him in the end? The subtle manipulations of the lord of decay and despair. Being stuck on a ship and watching his legion get infected by myriad diseases and contagions and mutagents until they were only recognisable as human in the grossest of ways. They had been his children in a way. They certainly shared some of his converted double helix. It had striped his sanity, having to watch that.

"I'm sorry." He whispers at the top of his mountainous throne of filth.

He looks down at himself, at the visage of his form. It disgusts him. He had never been pleasing to look upon, too gangly and pale and sickly looking, but now he was a manifestation of decay and infectious puss; A corpse-thing, neither living nor dead dwelling at the top of a mountain in a haze of lung blistering, eye dissolving smog.

Realization dawned. A cruel quip and jest of Chaos; he had become the thing he had most hated. And for what? A world of decay and entropy that festered in a realm where mad gods made a plaything out of reality. Who used him as a joke. A ten thousand year joke.

With bone creaking slowness he arose from his throne. A steely look of determination in his eyes. This was never as he had wanted. Never this. Elevated to being a Deamon Prince but not even worthy to help with the harvest by his own standards. The people of the Imperium needed him. Its dying people needed someone they could look to to deliver them from the lonely death. 'Child of death' but servant life. The duty was clear to him now. He would make himself worthy of his friends long gone, worthy to have helped them bring in that harvest so long ago. Chaos was going to pay dearly for its little witticism. One day the galaxy would once again praise the name Mortarion.


	2. Chapter 2

Is there such a thing as a flaw so creative and unique and exquisite that it becomes valuable in its own right? Sort of approaching the ever-elusive perfection from the other side. Lets say that you have a diamond of exquisite flawlessness. But upon closer inspection upon its carbon form you discover a flaw, but upon even closer inspection the flaw is in a perfect scale replica of.... some famous work of art. The Mona Lisa or the Venus de Milo or some such, what then? It's a flaw is it not? By every definition it is a flaw. But it is an exquisite flaw that is beautiful and quite possibly unique. Is it the flaw that makes it valuable, that adds distinction to its uniform carbon bonds? It should be. There is evidence aplenty in the universe that shows us the monotony of diamonds, their edges and their sparkle. But the placement and form of that flaw is unique. Not perfection but more valuable for it.

If only the same could be said for myself. I was born.... hmm. I cannot recall the planets name. Strange, that, you would think that I would be able to remember something as important as that. No doubt it will come to me if I try hard enough.

But in any case I was born on a gods forsaken lump of rock in the too close orbit of a too small star. It was awful. The radiation was bloody murder, the temperature difference between the shade and the light was just nasty and the atmosphere was twelve shades of spiteful. Bloody murder, nasty and spiteful is also a good way to describe the locals. Needless to say it was not one of the big tourist spots of the sector.

I was an orphan on that world. Orphans were not usually treated well on that world you see. Not well at all. The locals were not above cannibalism and there was a planet wide lack of pretty much every resource imaginable. Well... when I say cannibalism its not quite as gristly as it sounds. They would not, for instance, rip a leg of an orphan child and start munching. That would be just barbaric, it wasn't the planet Baal, they did have some standards. They would have slit my throat and dropped me into the bacteria tanks, the first step along the stages of protein-synthesis. Bloody hands at arms length and all that. Cannibalism at one remove. Much more civilized I'm sure you will agree.

Why was that not my unambiguously meaningless destiny? Damned if I know. Damned if I don't now. Damned either way. Perhaps it was my cherubically adorable features that thawed their bitter hearts and let them see the beauty of the universe... no, I can not even think that with a straight face. Not that it is my face anymore.

You would have thought one of my brothers-in-arms would have noticed by now wouldn't you? I am sure some of them must have. Maybe they have? Maybe they do not care? Who knows?

Possibly I should have thrown that sword away. It might have helped. But it was a work of art. Its infinitely sharp blade was a perfect synergy of form and function. Unfortunately it was deamonicaly possessed.

Not that we knew what the hell deamons were in those days. We knew there were things in the warp. We knew they were hostile. We just did not know how... infectious they could be.

Now what was that planets name again? Bah! Its going to be vexing me all day now.

What was I talking about again?.... oh yes. Deamonic possession. You could say that I am something of an expert on the subject. And the subject of an expert something.

You see... when a warp entity wants to possess a mortal body all it has to do is oust the occupant and learn how to pilot the fresh corpse. The trick, so I am given to understand, is to become fully installed within the first two or three minuets after the previous incumbent has left. Any longer and brain damage occurs. Last thing a deamon wants is to be stuck in a body whose brain has difficulty counting past one.

Wouldn't have worked like that with me. Me and my family have built in insulation against that sort of thing. What you might call a family trait.

In any case all that that meant was that I had to be thinking in the same shape as the... thing inhabiting that lovely sword and we would easily swap places in accordance with the doppelganger resonance principle.

How was I supposed to know that?

Well, not all that easily. Still took it the best part of fifty years. Persistent little bastard that it was. But then, if you have been stuck inside a lump of pointy metal for the last seventy millennia I dare say that you would eventually learn the meaning of patience.

Sort of what I am doing now. Laugh all you want. It could just as easily have been you, you know. Well maybe not.

Now what was that damned planet called again? Oh well. Its not like I don't have time to think about it. Some day I will find a way out of this prison of iron. In the meantime I have unlimited opportunity to perform all manner of cerebral cogitations. I have all the time in the world and then some to think. In that time I will find a way out. Depend upon it.


	3. Chapter 3

Background Man Forever

They say the Imperium now holds more than a million worlds and it saddens me to think that I may die and never see them all. That is one of the everyday tragedies, a bitter thing of mortality, that you get to the end of your life not having seen the barest fraction that there is to see. But I have seen much more than most, less than I would like and most I should not have.

To look at I am nothing special. In all the pict-files taken throughout Forever I am invariably the one holding someone else's camera or I am just out of the picture or blocked of by the metaphorical thumb over the lenses. If all of life was a play and the universe was the stage I would be one of the people in the background, making up the crowd as the movers and shakers danced in front of us soaking up the glory. And if the eye of the hypothetical observer was to move over the crowd and pick a face at random I can grantee you it would not be my face that has just been picked.

What do I look like? A question no one has ever asked. Either you are talking to me and can just look and see or you are not and do not care. Because, lets face it, no one cares about the extras in a play, the crowd in someone else's story. But if you did decide to talk to me what would you see? You would see unremarkable made manifest, bland incarnate. I stand at about average height and with similar build, my skin is very dark, my hair is almost black and cut short and my eyes are an earthy brown. I have no cybernetics, no scars, no birthmarks or anomalies to set me apart. I could come from any planet of a million.

Not that I am complaining. An inbuilt animosity has a few advantages. I am never perceived as either threat, pray, victim criminal or suspect. I drift through life sideways never being noticed, forever a shadow in the dark. Even psykers never notice me anymore, which is a relief considering my humanity being less than skin deep.

Even when I travel by warp I am in no real danger. The nightmare denizens of that strange place scarcely acknowledge my existence. I whish that could have been said for my perfectionist brother. But in all fairness carrying around a sword with dodgy glowing runes was not a particularly smart idea. He could not have done worse wearing a sign saying 'possess me'.

Travelling by warp. Now that is something that I have been doing quite a lot recently. A sort of pet project, if you will, to while away the millennia. During my old life of fame and fortune I began to hear rumours of a darkness rising all about. A shadow on the mind. A shadow of a Dragon. I know it has something to do with the Mechanicus. I know the Craftworlders know a lot more than they have told me. But hey have told me how dangerous the bloody thing is. Some thing they call Yngir. Say what you will about me but you can never say I was a coward. Did I hide when the dark fay xenos came to my home? No I bloody well did not. I was a blacksmith, I had muscles at the time and you need muscles for that job. You also need hammers. I am no coward, I will find this Dragon, I will find it and kill it. Not for glory, not for fame, not for reward but because it is the right thing to do. My brothers would have done it for those selfish reasons. Not me. You do the job in front of you and you do it well. Then you find another job. That is how to live. Fame and glory can go hang. Anyone who has seen a battle field afterwards can seldom use words like glory and mean it. And those who can are not worth knowing.

My name? Now why would anyone want to know that? I am old. So very old. In my time I have used as many as convenience has dictated, safe in the knowledge that those that took the time to remember it would forget before the day is out. What could I want with a name. Names are to help humans distinguish each other. But there is only one of anything like me now. All my brothers are gone, in one way or another, and my humanity is only a disguise. So what name could I ever apply to me? Possibly the name my father, N'bel, gave me? But that was so very, very long ago. Between the time I was named and now whole worlds have died. Empires have sparked into life and fallen to oblivion. There is only one of my kind left. I need no name.


End file.
